Don't Call Me Mother (7 page)

Everyone gathers on the platform. I stand at the edge of the tracks for a moment before Gram hisses me away, gazing to the silvery place at the horizon where they meet, trying to imagine what is beyond. The whole day is magic—my mommy will be here soon and all will be well. People mill around, some women wearing housedresses, their hair in rollers covered by scarves. Both of my mothers always look beautiful in their stylish dresses and great shoes. A boy kneels down by the tracks to grasp the rails and cries, “It’s coming. I can feel the vibrations!”

A beam of light hovers far off down the track. The train seems suspended for a moment as in a mirage, not moving; then the earth begins to tremble, and the whistle splits the air. The power of the onrushing train shocks me, makes my heart pound hard. People scatter as the steel beast roars in so fast I’m sure it will never stop. When the brakes finally take hold, the train keeps going for a few moments, metal screeching on metal. I put my hands over my ears. Finally, amazingly, the huge train shudders to a stop. Regular life begins for me again when men in blue uniforms throw down steel steps and help the passengers descend.

I wonder if I will recognize my mother. I watch a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman step down. She wears open-toed shoes, carries a paper bag and a small suitcase, and walks purposefully toward Gram. I watch them watch each other, and then I know it’s her. I break into a run, patent leather shoes tap tap tapping on the bricks. “Mommy, Mommy.” I fling myself at her, grabbing her legs, looking up into beauty itself, my mother’s soft eyes, her dark wavy hair. She smiles and kneels down so I can kiss her cheek. I can hardly believe that she is real.

“Hi, Mommy. Do you think I’ve grown?”

“Hi, Linda Joy,” Mommy says casually, as if we’ve been apart only a few hours. She kisses my cheek lightly, stiffens, and gets up.

“Hello, Josephine,” my grandmother says in her cool voice.

“Hello, Mother.”

The great silver train growls and coughs under the wide blue sky.

Mother’s musky scent fills the car as we roll home. I am suspended in a dream, watching her every move, trying to make up for all the missed time. I feel like crying. I didn’t cry for her while she was gone, knowing that if I started I might never stop. Somehow I can control it all when she’s away. Now that she’s here, I’m desperate for her, but I have to sit back while Mommy tells Gram about her job in Chicago. Gram misses Chicago. She still acts as if it’s her real home, even though we live in Enid.

Once we get home, I track my mother through the house, trying to uncover her mystery. I question her about each brush and tube of makeup she put on the hall table, the mascara she brushes on her eyelashes. I reach out to touch the fine hairs on her face. She smiles at me absentmindedly, as if she has just realized I’m here. I drink her in with an unquenchable thirst.

Gram seems a little upset or mad, her dark eyes shadowed with feelings. Mother gets coffee and an ashtray, then sits in the burgundy chair, her knitting needles clicking away. The silent air between them heats up like a hot wire. I watch my beautiful mothers, each of them with a part of the other inside. Unsaid words build up all that day and into the night. Finally, from my bed, I hear them fighting in the cadence I remember from Wichita. Later, Mommy slips between the sheets next to me. Her delicious aroma wafts over me as her dark hair flows across my pillow. I fall asleep wrapped in cottony dreams, breathing in the scent of my mother.

The next morning, Gram is up early, smoking and pacing. I can tell that it will not be a good day. In the living room, the maroon ceiling presses down into the burgundy rug; smoke swirls in thick gray ropes. Mother saunters out from the bedroom and demands coffee.

“It’s in the kitchen,” Gram rasps.

“That’s a fine how-do-you-do. No way to treat a guest.”

“Guest? Just how long do you plan to stay, since you lost your job? You’re a grown woman and…”

“Look here, Mother…” Mommy’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Mommy, I’ll pour your coffee,” I say, desperate to break the tension.

“No you won’t; you’re too little. Mother, you don’t let her handle hot things on the stove, do you?”

“Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Their mad storm of smoke and words travels inside me, words like, “I’m taking care of your kid, you’re irresponsible, you’re mean and cruel.” It is clear that I am a difficult burden. I go to my bedroom and sit by the window, my eyes on puffy white clouds in the azure sky. The outdoors is always lovely and peaceful. For a long time, I watch the wind blowing against a cottonwood tree.

After a while, the storm inside the house passes. Gram begs Mother to play the piano. Mother resists, then sighs and puts down her knitting. A whole new mother appears at the piano bench. As her fingers move across the keys unraveling a haunting melody, I think of the rising full moon, and the loneliness of a train whistle at night. An ancient heartache thrums in my chest. The music seems to tell me a story about my mother, about her sadness and her mystery. I watch her skillful fingers run up and down the keyboard.

When she stops, Mother returns to earth, no longer magical, no longer weaving a beautiful world where we all could be together in peace. She returns instantly to her smoking and furrowed brow.

“Does that music have a name?” I ask.

“‘Liebestraum.’ It means ‘Song of Love.’”

All day long, the song weaves through my body, filling in places that have been empty since Mother first left me, easing the ache with a sweetness that gives a lilt to my step.

Aunt Helen has invited us for dinner. When we arrive, I am surprised that she hugs Mother tight the same way she does me, calling her darlin’. They start talking easily, as if they’d just seen each other last week.

“Did you know my mommy before?” I ask Aunt Helen later. She stands at the stove stirring the glop, adding onion and tomatoes.

She says, “Land sakes, girl, I was there when you were born. I was with Frances that day and…” She starts to say something but then falls quiet. I ask her what, and she just shakes her head.

Out in the living room, Gram and Mother start in, their voices rising and falling. Aunt Helen struts out and shakes her finger at them. “Now look here…” Uncle Maj stands up like a military man and barks, “I’ll have none of that in my house. Talk nice to each other or you’ll have to go home.”

Mother and Gram both fix their dark eyes on Helen and Maj. I brace for more trouble. To my surprise, they sit down and light cigarettes, the room filling with smoke and tension but no angry words. Maj gets them to talk about more neutral things like the weather, President Eisenhower, how America should have joined in the last war to rescue England sooner. Aunt Helen and I return to the kitchen, where the fun is.

One night back at our house, I am in my room painting a watercolor of Bethlehem and Jesus and the bright star. In the living room, voices run up and down the scale, high-pitched screeches. And I hear dishes crashing. I want to stop them, but I’m afraid to. I listen for clues, hearing only more crashing and screaming. Finally, I rush out of my bedroom to find our good china in pieces on the floor. Mommy’s curls are loose around her face, and Gram is howling. My mother is ranting about something, her voice rising and falling in a tone that is too familiar. I shout at them to stop, grabbing Mother around the legs, trying to get her attention. Suddenly the screaming stops. Gram looks at me with guilt in her eyes. I pick up some broken shards, but Mother takes them out of my hand and tells me in a soft, fractured voice that she’ll take care of it. I watch my two mothers crawl on their knees, picking up the china pieces. The rest of what is broken remains hidden from sight for a long time to come.

Despite the horrible battles, my mother’s visit is a dream come true. I get used to her being with us, almost get used to the fighting again, again, again. One night as I eavesdrop, I hear the dreaded words: a new job. Chicago. I ask Mother if she is leaving, and she says, “Soon.” I start to shake, terrified of losing her for good.

The next morning Mother stumbles out of the bedroom looking sleepy, her hair tangled. When she passes me to sit in the chair and smoke, I clench my jaw, wishing very hard I could get her to stay—but I know that what I want doesn’t count in her decisions. Mother smokes, still sleepy, legs curled up under her, looking almost like a little girl. Gram hunches on the couch, relief all over her face that Mother will be leaving.

Mother gestures for me to come to her. She draws me close and puts her arm around me. It is almost more than I can bear without crying. When it is time to leave, she always touches me more. My skin burns with a desperate need, more hungry for her than ever.

“Mama has to leave today,” she murmurs. “I have to start my new job.”

“Can’t you stay?” I say mournfully, touching the curls in her hair.

“Mama has a new job,” she says about herself. “Aren’t you happy for her?”

I say that yes, I’m happy for her. I have to say the right thing no matter what I’m feeling. But there is one thing I can’t resist asking her for.

“Mama?” I twist her hair over my fingers.

“What?” She blows a puff of smoke into the air.

“Can you play ‘Liebestraum’ for me before you go? Please.” She pauses, frowning. I know she doesn’t want to, but I keep begging, knowing that she feels guilty about leaving and is likely to give in.

Finally she gets up and arranges herself at the piano bench. I cuddle next to her as she unravels the melody that runs up and down the keyboard. I see colors—yellow and amber, orange and brown, blue and red and green, shimmering in the waterfalls of notes she plays. The notes fill the room and rise to the sky, filling me with my mother in ways that nothing else can. I soak up all she has to give, folding this moment into my mind so I can bring it back when she’s gone.

When she is finished playing, she gets up and goes off to bathe, dress, and pack her things. I follow her around like a duckling, watching her fold her sweaters, smoothing them with her hands. I wish it was me she was caressing like that, but I seem invisible to her. She frowns and smokes, gathering her make-up from the table. I remember the day she put it there. I was so happy then, and now grief fills my body. I ache as if I have been beaten, but everything is inside where Mommy and Gram can’t see it. I make sure they don’t, because it will just upset them.

I ride in the back of the car with my mother, praying that time will reverse, wishing that the train will never come. Gram’s mood is lighter, which makes me more upset. If they got along better, Mommy might stay.